Mustique...

The sharp trill of a trim phone disturbs the Caribbean calm.

"Bob?"
"Ziggy?"
"Where are you my lovely boy?"
"Mustique - and no, don't even *think* about asking to reverse the charges. I'm still crowdfunding the last phone bill after you forgot to check that the receiver was back in properly. 2 hours 46 minutes and 53 seconds from Zurich to Los Angeles. And you wonder why I've dropped you on friends and family. Any more of this and I'll have to get the zoot suits from the Serious Moodswings tour out of hock and up on eBay. Have you seen how much the fakes are going for by the way?"
"Ersatz Zoot suits, schmoot suits, Bob my lovely boy do I have a zinger for you? Oddballs? Veirdos is it? A vord to the vise meine kleine glamerstuckeroll - get your kvetls down to Downing Street. Could be just the boost your career needs...like I always say - it's die-veeeer-see-fye or die in this game....and don't say I never do anything for you....'vieders...leders…" and with that he's hung up.


Amazing how short the phone calls are when he's paying. Still, nice to hear from the old scrote and I suppose I should be grateful that he's still on hand occasionally to lend me career advice, especially in these dark days. Better than borrowing a stiff talking to from him, that's fo sho. I'm still mulling over Ziggy's suggestion as I catch up on goings on back in Blighty - gawd bless old Auntie Beeb by the way. Honestly, I wouldn't have a clue what was going on in the world without her. Nowadays, you just don't know what to believe do you? Faux this, fake that...artificial the other. It's like one ginormous digital Alice in Wonderland rabbithole of lies, deception and deceit - well, at least that's what they reckon on Newsround. That John Craven wears it well though, doesn't he? Doesn't look a day over 21.

Quietly perusing my Gleaner or Star in the hammock over aperitifs, I finally twig what Ziggy has been on about. Seems there's been a bit of a kerfuffle back home over just such 'weirdos and oddballs' as Ziggy was referring to. Blimey, this bloke sounds like me around 1974:


One way to get around the problems of unplanned pregnancies creating a permanent underclass would be to legally enforce universal uptake of long-term contraception at the onset of puberty. Vaccination laws give it a precedent, I would argue.


Still, a twelve tube a day Bostik habit can do that to a man - and this Sabisky looks as if he's had half of Wickes' adhesives shelf up his hooter. He also looks distinctly eastern European, and with a name like that I'd be very surprised if he managed to get the Home Office app to confirm his settled status. Bloody foreigners. Reminds me of the shabby blond bit of blubber I met down by the beach the other day - Christ knows how he managed to cop off with that pert little thing. Looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. I dread to think what he looks like with his clothes on. We got chatting about our family histories, what with him being somewhat a fan of militant Protestant Unionism, as I was pleasantly surprised to discover. He was telling me how he was born in New York and of Turkish descent but had been very pro-Leave in the referendum. I told him, no offence, that he was a daft cunt and he'd have no one but himself to blame when he found himself detained in an electrified pen outside Newhaven with 15,000 of his blood relatives for company. For a blobby geezer he had a fairly proficient left hook.

But I digress. This 'super-forecaster' is also clearly deranged himself if he thinks the vaccination programme is a good precedent for anything. You've got more chance of getting one of those Mum's taking her fag out of her mouth whilst she's eating than there is of her kids getting their MMR vaccinations. 'That's it love, you stock up on those 'special vitamins' the nice lady who's telling you not to use the vaccine is selling you, and have another Lambert & Butler....' Again, it's the smoke and mirrors of the dark web  isn't it? I blame Kraftwerk myself.

Our friend Sabisky is on even dodgier ground when it comes to matters of race. I seem to recall getting in a similar pickle outside Victoria Station. Dressed like a cross between Albert Speer and Rita Fairclough, mouthing off incoherently and getting caught in mid-fascist salute was enough to get you on the cover of the NME back then. But that was a more forgiving age. You could have a healthy interest in the badge hierarchies of the Hitler Youth Movement without everyone immediately jumping to the conclusion that you were a raving, eugenics-spouting white supremacist on covert manoeuvres for the National Front. Or a nonce for that matter. But nowadays people just feel they can say anything, no matter how inflammatory, and they'll immediately become a social pariah, get blanket radio play bans and the ideological equivalent of one of those parental advisory stickers plastered on their forehead for time-immemorial. Bloody hell, I'd have *killed* for publicity like that back in the day! But I try and keep out of the immigration debate in the main now. Well, it's hard enough smuggling Negrita back through border control as it is without pouring further fuel on the flames of race relations - and she was born in Swindon.

And just as I'm about to roll off the hammock into the still, cool waters for one last moonlit swim, the breaking news comes through that our super-caster has done the decent thing, fallen on his sword and resigned. Best thing all round I say. I suppose being a super-forecaster, he probably saw it coming anyway. No, I leave the politics to the politicians nowadays. I'm minded of something Bryan Ferry once said to me as we careened elegantly around the electric blue illuminated dance floor at Tokyo Joe's, back when we could do no wrong and every sonic adventure sounded like a gilt-rimmed invitation to a fabulous future..
"When wor came for wor Slade, wor did nuthn cos wor wasnae in Slade, like. When wor came for Sailor, wor did nuthn cos wor wasnae in Sailor - though wor once had wor anchor tattooed on wor cheek down wor docks for a laugh. Aye, it was canny.... When wor came for Gary Glitter, wor did nuthn ...although, to be fair, wor had a point wi' that one. When wor came for me, wor had no one left, though but..."


That must have been one ridiculously threadbare edition of Cheggars Plays Pop, I muse as another foaming 'buie breezer guzzles down into my yard of ale glass. And then, the mildly amusing thought that maybe Ziggy might be right after all...and that now, of course, there's a vacancy...